Requiem for a Wedding
by SashaDaae
Summary: Not so much romance as it is angst. Christine again ponders- this time her wedding day. The day she is supposed to be the happiest of all, she finds herself weeping along with the angels.


Disclaimer: Don't people ever get sick of having to write these? I don't own, I'm too poor!

More book than anything, although some parts are obviously drawn from the movie/musical.

_

I didn't think he would come.

I expected he would have stayed behind, perhaps out of loyalty to Erik, perhaps because we hardly ever spoke- it is Raoul who owes the Daroga thanks, not necessarily me. But I had an invitation sent to him, despite the sneers of Raoul's family ("A foreigner?" "Persian, no less!") and my fiance's own nervousness at the idea. It must have been an impulse, because when the day had finally arrived I found myself afraid to look the man in the eye.

My fears proved to be part of my nervousness, for the ceremony had progressed without incident. In fact, it was astonishingly- and almost annoyingly- perfect in every way possible. Most brides, I imagine, wouldn't mind this. However I had become accustomed to incidents and almost expected one of the glass windowpanes to explode all over the poor guests, who had done nothing but arrive to watch.

My dress, as narcissistic as it may sound, was a masterpiece in its own. Anxious as I was before the ceremony began, I found the soft ivory silk to be comforting. I had buried the dress Erik had forced onto my body in the bowels of my closet- I never wanted to see it again.

After all, it was but a dress…was it not?

Truthfully, I hadn't really been looking for him during the ceremony. It was not until Raoul and I had exited the chapel, laurel leaves scattered in our wake, that I had spotted his tanned skin and dark eyes. He was regarding me in a most curious fashion- it was extremely unsettling. Not intimidating in the way La Carlotta had glowered at me, nor the way he stared at me when he thought I was not watching. No, he seemed almost sad, resentful…I cannot place the word at the moment.

I forced myself to look away- but the moment was already ruined. I was suddenly sad and ashamed of myself. I felt as if I had wronged somebody; I had the strange sense that he knew what I had done with the dress, I knew I had deceived his greatest friend with a kiss and a promise to return. On the afternoon that was supposed to be the greatest day of my life, I felt like sinking into the ground and hiding beneath the earth like a lowly worm.

Raoul tightened his grip on my hand; I forced myself to smile at him and think only of happy, clichéd thoughts of a home and children, a perfect life as a de Chagny.

Christine de Chagny.

I couldn't believe what I had just done. I felt like I was making the biggest mistake in my life.

I did not fit in with his likes. I was too different- not proper or fashionable enough, I did not know the ways of the upper class, all I knew was the Opera and my music. I had been sneered and scorned enough to know that no amount of beautiful dresses, lovely cakes, and sheer perfection at all social events would never make me belong to this foreign crowd.

But it was too late. I was now Christine de Chagny. And there was no turning back.

I still felt Daroga's eyes on my back as the pair of us retreated. Memories race through my mind as congratulations and comments about my supposed beauty are showered upon us. I remember Erik's voice, his music- rising, soaring up to Heaven and crashing dramatically to the depths of Hell. His hands, his delicate white hands and how kind and startlingly obedient and gentle he was to me.

_Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore…_

Later that night, I returned to the little chapel Raoul and I were married at. I had the strange feeling that I once again was not alone. I knew it was not Daroga- I had spoken a mere two words to the man-thank you-and he had nodded his head curtly before leaving. And after all, now that I was in 'safe hands', Daroga had no reason to worry about me, the young soprano who could barely care for a mouse, much less herself.

As I silently glided up and down the aisles, I had the sense that someone was accompanying me on my journey. I trembled, but did not leave. I finally sat in one of the aisles near a panel of stained glass and bowed my head, closed my eyes.

Behind my lid I saw different images. Erik in his fedora, a cloak winding about his ankles. There was no mask attached to his face- the skin was smooth, unmarred, and his eyes unafraid and confident. He smiled at me, his face bending to meet mine. The music was happy- not the sad, drawn out moan of pain and lonesomeness I had heard so often.

I opened my eyes and was surprised to find I had been crying. Not alone, however. For I was in the accompaniment of angels, and they too had wept along with me.


End file.
